


An Act of Courage

by Mystical_Magician



Series: Dislocation [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender, Naruto
Genre: AU!Narutoverse, Action/Adventure, Angst, Crossover, Dimension Travel, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, waterbender!Iruka
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystical_Magician/pseuds/Mystical_Magician
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iruka didn't know how it had happened, nor why. The reality was thus: he was a 16-year-old not-quite-master waterbender in an unfamiliar world. He had no frame of reference, no home, and no reason to go on living; until the three children.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <em>Sometimes even to live is an act of courage.</em><br/><em>-Seneca</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue, Part 1: Before

**Author's Note:**

> This plot bunny is rabid. I’ve been sitting on it for a while, and already I have plans for a sequel and an AU spin-off sort of thing that would take place near the middle/end of this fic. 
> 
> I’ll also warn you that this is a sort of AU Naruto-verse. I’m not too familiar with Naruto, but I’ll try to keep most of the things like geography, ninja, abilities, major plot lines, etc. the same, or at least similar. However, there will also be some deliberate changes, as you will see in a chapter or two.

Iruka is one of the first waterbenders born to the Southern Water Tribe in the wake of the Hundred Year War. 

Less than a decade after the war, and they still struggle to rebuild the Southern Tribe. It is nowhere near its former glory, but the help of its sister tribe has proven invaluable. That is how Iruka’s parents meet.

His father is a warrior – or was, when warriors were desperately needed, when no one could see an end to the fighting and hope was a fragile, fading thing. Tikaani had survived the Fire Nation raids that had killed the rest of his family, had survived small Water Tribe raids against their more powerful enemy, had survived the battle on the Day of Black Sun, and the imprisonment that followed. He was not a particularly powerful warrior, nor particularly skilled, but he was a stubborn survivor, and had passed that trait down to his son.

Iruka’s mother, Yuzuki, is from the Northern Water Tribe, part of the group led by Sifu Pakku to help their sister tribe recover and rebuild. She was a waterbending healer’s apprentice then, and made the waterbender’s ward when the last of Yuzuki’s family was killed in the siege. She is not a waterbending prodigy; she never learns to fight as the legendary Katara does, even away from the strict traditions of her home tribe. But Yuzuki finds peace, and a purpose. One day she becomes a healer in her own right. And one day, she finds love in Tikaani. 

Iruka is a cheerful child. He laughs and plays with the other children, goes penguin sledding and has snowball fights, builds igloos and plays at being a warrior. He joins the sporadic waterbending classes Sifu Katara holds; sporadic because she is a diplomat, a hero, and the Avatar’s consort, and peace is still so new and precarious. She is away, in the Earth Kingdom or the Fire Nation, far more often than she is present. But her lessons are always a treat, for she rewards their efforts and achievements with stories of her adventures with the Avatar. Iruka loves the stories, soaks them up and repeats them to himself, imprints them in his mind. 

And sometimes the other waterbending masters, what few there are, hold the occasional lesson. But they are so rarely available, and that is fine; Iruka is still a young child, hardly a prodigy, and he is among the oldest of this new generation of waterbenders. In any case, his father teaches him how to track, and how to throw a boomerang, and his mother teaches him all she knows of healing. Iruka thinks he’ll be a warrior healer, maybe, when he grows up. 

When Iruka is nine his world ends. 

Tikaani is a trader now, has been since Yuzuki was pregnant with their son. This is the first time Iruka and his mother join him in a small trading group traveling north through the Earth Kingdom toward the Northern Water Tribe, and Iruka is wildly excited. He dreams of adventures, and epic battles, and all the new people he will meet. He walks hand in hand with his mother in the mornings when they break camp, and when he grows tired of walking and exploring the roadside, his father carries him or places him on the back of a buffalo yak. Each night he proudly helps to build the campfire, and each night his mother tells him stories of adventurers, of the Avatar, of the spirit world, and especially of Tui, La, and Yue, the spirits most important to the Water Tribes.

They are a day and a half away from Ba Sing Se when the raiders strike. Iruka doesn’t understand. There is chaos and screaming and blood, so much blood. His father tries to rally them, and the men draw out clubs and scimitars, while the only other waterbending fighter in their group draws from a water skin. 

“Down with the benders!” someone shouts. Iruka barely hears them; something tangles with his legs and he hits the ground hard. He needs to find water, needs to remember his waterbending lessons, but he trembles with panic and the breath is knocked from his lungs. 

“Iruka!” his mother shouts, yanking him to his feet and shoving him toward the trees. 

And then there is a man before him, in torn and dirty clothes the dark green and brown colors of the Earth Kingdom. His teeth are bared, gaps evident and a scar at the corner of his mouth, but it is the bandit’s eyes that catch Iruka’s, so cold and merciless and empty. The katana flashes out, and Iruka’s mother yanks him back but not quite fast enough. He screams, wails in shock and agony as the sword edge drags across the bridge of his nose and blood drenches his face. 

“Run Iruka!” his mother demands, tears in her eyes as she pushes him behind her, toward the forest. “Run fast, and hide!” 

And his mother, who has never learned to fight, draws the water from her bag and mimics a fighting stance she has only ever seen and never attempted. 

“Mama,” Iruka whimpers, but he obeys. He turns and runs, crashing through the underbrush, blinded by blood and tears. He is far out of sight and out of hearing range when he climbs a tree and curls up in its branches, hidden by the leaves. The sky darkens, the temperature drops, and Iruka is freezing and hungry, but he waits. He waits, and he waits, but no one comes for him. 

Eventually, Iruka finds his way back to the road, but all that remains are scraps of wood, fabric, and bloodstains. “Mama,” he sobs. “Daddy.” But there is no one, and eventually he trudges back to Ba Sing Se. Iruka doesn’t know what else to do. He waits for someone to find him. No one does. 

He joins the orphaned street children of Ba Sing Se. He learns how to beg and steal, where the best places to squat are, and how to tell whether a person will be more likely to beat him or help him. Iruka runs wild, grows hard and hungry, and if he can’t quite give up his bending altogether, he hides it away where no one can see. Standing out is trouble. Some people pay quite well for young children that can be molded to suit their needs, and young impressionable benders are a rare treat. 

Iruka is a survivor. It is something he inherited from his father. And the stories help, stories from his mother and Sifu Katara that he tells himself, cycles through them every night when the loneliness is crushing.

Over a year has passed when he is caught by a vaguely familiar looking man in the blue clothing of the Water Tribe. He catches Iruka healing a gash in his leg, and eventually the story comes out. The man, Aput, is heading to the Northern Water Tribe, not the South. But, Aput decides, Iruka needs a home and a teacher; he can stay or make his way back to the Southern Water Tribe with the next group headed that direction, but he won’t leave him here, on the streets of Ba Sing Se. He is a dirty, half-wild thing, but Aput will not abandon a fellow tribesman, particularly one so young.

Iruka is wary and suspicious, but he knows the man won’t let him be. And he knows the hardships and the cruelty of the streets, knows that this is likely the best offer he will ever receive if he wishes to make his way in the world. 

Word is sent to Chief Hakoda about Iruka’s survival, as well as a brief account of the raid, what Iruka remembers. He decides to remain in the Northern Water Tribe. He has no family left, nothing to return to, and there are more waterbending masters available here. 

He has trouble adjusting. He runs wild, rebels against the strict traditions – not so strict as when Sifu Katara was forbidden to learn to fight, but the prejudice remains. He pranks, laughs when he feels like crying at the taunts from the other children. “Little girl,” the boys call him, when they discover he knows healing, is quite good at it. “Gonna grow up and be someone’s wife? Were you born without your man parts? Let’s see, then, prove you’re not a woman. You don’t belong here learning waterbending; you’re meant to report to the women’s lodge.”

Iruka doesn’t understand their disregard for the healing arts. Even if it hadn’t been his last connection to his mother, it is so useful. He would be dead by now if he couldn’t heal himself. And so he continues to sit in on healing lessons, and fights back with fists and tricks when the bullies taunt him. 

They are bigger and better at waterbending than he is. But his temper flares so quick and hot that he hardly cares; he is used to pain, in any case. And Iruka’s father taught him traps. It’s easy enough to adjust them to catch the boys in his pranks, and Iruka has always been creative. Waterbending simply broadens the possibilities for chaos and destruction. 

His waterbending master is also his guardian. Sifu Kaito believes in hard work before natural talent, in building up strength, agility, and speed before building up waterbending skills. Iruka is impatient, as most of Sifu Kaito’s students are. But the physical exercises calm him, teach him patience, and although Iruka never stops pranking, the purpose behind the pranks is less about forcing people to pay attention to him, and more about the satisfaction that comes from a job well done. 

Iruka is nearly 14, nearly a waterbending master, when he leaves the Northern Water Tribe. His heart aches to know that, had his father lived, he would have been preparing to be taken ice dodging, a rite of passage that would prove Iruka ready to become a true warrior. He wonders if he would have been given the Mark of the Brave, the Wise, or the Trusted. 

Instead he travels, wanders the world. Fellow travelers impart advice, teach him bits and pieces here and there, so that eventually he learns which of his hunting, trapping, and survival skills must be adjusted to these more temperate climes, and how. He knows how to survive – how to thrive – in the harsher arctic tundra. The city streets in the lowest quarters of Ba Sing Se, too, he endured. But the landscape here is far different.

He falls in with a band of Kyoshi warriors, and develops a crush for the first time. Ela has been a warrior for three years, and he follows the group back to Kyoshi Island. They show him how to use his waterbending moves in a hand-to-hand fight, and eventually are persuaded to teach him their style of fighting, which isn’t so different from waterbending really. Iruka isn’t what anyone would call a natural with the fans, but when Ela laughs and kisses him as a reward for his perseverance, he can’t find it in himself to mind how often he makes mistakes. He is even worse with the katana, but after months of hard work they declare him acceptable. And he feels accomplished, feels proud because he incorporates other fighting styles into his waterbending, develops new waterbending moves, and he can’t wait to see what else he can blend together. He is creative and unique, and he is beginning to see how to use those skills in something other than pranks.

After almost a year with the Kyoshi warriors, Iruka departs again. He and Ela grew close, so close, maybe too close, because in the last month they had been struggling, clashing, pushing each other apart. He leaves before there is nothing left, before they cannot even stand to be friends. 

He wanders wherever his feet take him, returns briefly to Ba Sing Se, as a visitor this time instead of a street rat, explores the Foggy Swamp and is taken aback by the inhabitants, and ends up working as a janitor in a dojo owned by Toph Beifong, where both earthbenders and firebenders are taught. Iruka first learns the styles by watching, and then is invited to join the classes, as both student and practice opponent. It is good experience for all of them; three different elements, one-on-one or in a melee. Iruka never meets Toph Beifong, world’s greatest earthbender, and he regrets it a little, but the instructors and students keep him busy.

Unsurprisingly, the firebending style gives him the most trouble. Earthbending has a balance to it, between offence and defense; it is not all about stubbornness, about facing opponents head-on with sheer bullheadedness, although Iruka has that in spades. It is about waiting and listening for the right moment to strike, and then striking decisively. Firebending, on the other hand, is overwhelmingly offensive, the movements swift, whirling, and constant. His muscles burn for weeks, as the teachers force him out of his area of comfort with an element and fighting style that is almost completely opposed to all he has been taught. It is difficult, the instructors often harsh and unyielding. But water adapts, and Iruka survives.

The students do not understand why he would waste time learning a bending style that is not his own, but they tolerate him. The instructors, on the other hand, are fascinated. General Iroh, Dragon of the West, is the only bender they know who incorporated another element’s style into his own bending, mimicking waterbending movements to redirect lightning. It is a lesson that has become widely known, the information spread so as to help promote peace and tolerance between nations, and that story has always fascinated Iruka. It is, perhaps, why he is so determined to incorporate the influence of other elements, other styles, into his own waterbending. 

One day Iruka awakes on a forest floor that he does not recognize. His pack digs awkwardly into his back, his boomerang is missing, and he does not remember how he got there. The sun is high in the sky, the temperature mild. Has he lost hours? Days? He searches for his boomerang, and never finds it.

Eventually he hears the flow of water and walks toward the sound, finds a stream and follows it. Some of the plants are familiar, but many are strange to him. Iruka has not seen their like before. His stomach clenches, his heart races with nerves when he truly considers his situation, so he tries not to think.

He does not travel far before coming across a small town, and something makes him pause out of sight in the shadow of the trees. He has never seen such clothes. The dull colors bring the Earth Kingdom to mind, but he has never in his life seen such strange styles. And the hair colors! He has never before seen yellow hair, and he cannot help but stare. 

Eventually, frightened and confused, Iruka ventures into town. Eventually, he finds a map, of the country, of the world. Something – his heart – lodges in his throat, and he attempts to appear calm as he flees to the shelter of the forest.

“Impossible,” he whispers, too panicked even for tears. His body is cold all over, shaking, and he thinks his heart will burst from his chest. “I don’t…understand.” He racks his memory and comes up with nothing. His mind is a blank. Nothing explains this. It had been just another day at the dojo, and then…what?

Iruka spends the next few nights in a tree, near water where he feels safest. Water is his element. His denial lasts only a few days, and then he can deny no longer. This is not his world. This country does not exist, this world should not exist, but it does, and his world is gone. Or, he has gone from it. 

Iruka does not understand. He does not understand what, or how, or why. He assumes his situation has something to do with the spirits, because what else could it be? He has never heard of such a thing happening. But if it has before, how would the story spread? What happened? Had he trespassed on a sacred site, offended a powerful spirit, even stumbled into the spirit world itself? 

Is this considered mercy? He has not been killed, merely sent elsewhere? He cannot know the minds of spirits. They are not human; with the exception of Princess Yue, they have never been human, and their ways are not his. 

Iruka does not understand this world. Almost nothing is the same. Society and customs are strange, from what little he has managed to observe. Even the plants are unrecognizable, and the animals are bizarre. Many seem almost diminished in some way. It is as though they are missing part of themselves, as though they were only half-finished. Iruka knows no one and nothing. He thought his world ended when his parents died, but at least he knew the geography, the customs, the animals, even simply the clothes. At least he could always return to his childhood home. He had no family, and few friends, but at least there were people of his tribe, of his sister tribe. 

Iruka thinks death may have been more merciful.

He does not know how much time he lost, between his last, ordinary day at the dojo, and the day he woke on the forest floor. And Iruka never regains the memories he lost.


	2. Prologue, Part 2: After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the end of the two-part prologue, and the writing style will become more normal/standard (however it’s described), without the present tense and with more dialogue.
> 
> Happy Holidays everyone!

Iruka wanders with no destination in mind. One place is no better or worse than another, and he only occasionally comes across people in any case. He is in the wilderness somewhere – anywhere – it hardly matters. He has nowhere to go. He has nowhere to return. 

He grows hungry. The supplies in his pack last a few days, and he takes the time he has left to observe the animals. Iruka knows better than to make assumptions about plants that appear edible, particularly in a world that is so dissimilar to his own. The white dragon bush and the white jade bush, after all, appear nearly identical, though one is poisonous and the other is famed for the tea made with its leaves and flowers. Iruka is neither reckless, nor depressed enough yet to give up and leave his fate in the hands of chance, or fate, or spirits. He is stubborn enough to survive in the face of extreme ignorance, though he does not yet know what he survives for.

Iruka’s observations are not enough. Not quite. He has so far identified only a handful of berries and roots that are safe to consume, and supplements the diet with fish and small animals caught in his snares. A book, an actual guide to the flora and fauna of the world, or at least the region, is necessary. When he finds a road that is more a trail than anything, he follows it to a small town. There is no bookstore or library, but at the general store he barters for the guide he requires, and stays a few days to listen and observe. Knowledge, as he has come to understand, is power; at the moment, he is uncomfortably powerless. 

Iruka does not have the funds for room and board, so he does odd jobs around town, mainly cleaning and repair work. He lingers in cafes, listens with gentle smiles and soft encouragement to the people he meets, and if he cannot manage sincere happiness, at least he can be friendly. Iruka’s sharp, clever mind whirs, storing what information and speculation he can before leaving three days later. He still does not know – cannot quite understand – what “shinobi” means, but he did not dare to ask for clarification. It is obviously an important, well-known occupation, and Iruka does not dare draw attention to himself by asking, or by remaining longer with the small, insular town.

The plant guide becomes worn with use as Iruka studies it, compares pictures and descriptions to reality. He has not dropped dead, nor become ill, so it must at least be accurate. 

He does not know what to do with himself. 

Iruka wanders aimlessly – inland, he thinks, having discovered that he is on an island in a land known as Water; it is appropriate, and surprising, and sad, and he _aches_ with the unfamiliarity of it. He cannot remain in the woods and the meadows indefinitely, certainly not when winter arrives. But can he afford to remain within a town? Can he not? He will learn little of this world beyond the flora and fauna of Mizu no Kuni, if he becomes a hermit in the wilderness, provided he does not die of winter cold or worse. He does not think he can afford ignorance. 

But where will he go? The island map showed only small towns, and there he will never be able to blend into a crowd; he will draw the eye always, stick out as a stranger. Iruka needs a large city, not even so large as Ba Sing Se or the Northern Water Tribe, where he can have access to books, a library, and be simply another face among the crowd. 

The mist plays tricks with his eyes, though Iruka does not dare bend it out of his way. Something insists that he keep his waterbending abilities secret (“ _Down with the benders_ ,” whispers a voice from childhood nightmares), and later he will be glad several times over to have listened to his instincts. For now, however, he occasionally sees figures, people in the distance, and sometimes hears the clang of metal against metal. What makes him almost desperate to know, to research and understand, is that even in broad, clear daylight they seem to disappear into thin air, or to move at speeds greater than a human should be able, though he concedes that distance and perspective may have something to do with the phenomenon. Perhaps they are only men; but perhaps, just perhaps, they are spirits. Perhaps they can give him answers, or even – he does not dare hope – send him home.

One day, he finds what he is looking for. Rising from the mist, several mountains set as a background, is a large city. Iruka does not know why it did not appear on the map, particularly considering its size, but he hardly spends much time in contemplation. 

He watches from the cover of the trees, notices that the few visitors to the city appear required to show papers at the gate, and his heart sinks. He has no papers, has no idea what might happen to him if he should admit to it. Even if he were allowed to apply for entry, how would he answer the questions that would be sure to follow? The only geography he knows of this world is the little gleaned from a public map in a store. Iruka knows nothing about politics or people, economy or society. A child, he knows, will be far better informed than himself. 

Instead, Iruka attempts to sneak in a few days later, nearly halfway around the city in an area where he is almost certain no guards are present. 

This is a mistake, and he pays dearly. 

Of course he would never have been able to see the guards, much less sense their presence. Of course he would never be able to enter unnoticed. Of course his presence near the walls had not been overlooked. Iruka, then, was too ignorant to know the futility – and danger – of his actions. 

Kirigakure is not kind to potential spies, however foolish they appear. And innocence means little when a lone, weak foreigner wanders into the hands of Torture & Investigation, practically volunteering himself as a test subject, or training tool. 

Iruka has never been tortured before. He has never felt such pain, and no longer tries to refrain from screaming in a futile show of defiance, because he is long past caring what they think of him. He had hope, once, that they would allow him to leave once he had proven not to be an enemy or spy. That hope is long gone, and he knows that when they release him it will be because he is dead. 

And so he escapes. The details are hazy, but he runs, and by some miracle they do not find him. He staggers, sloshes across streams, and falls to the ground when he can no longer go on. Clear, running water quenches his thirst, and he chances a root vegetable raw, because he does not dare to light a fire. He passes out, and when he wakes he follows the stream until he judges himself far enough from any pursuers to chance a meal. Sunlight glitters on fish scales, and without any fishhook or spear, with his body as battered and bruised as it is, Iruka can only rely on waterbending if he wishes to catch his meal quickly. 

He takes his stance, motions deliberately, and…

Nothing. 

Panicked tears gather in the corners of his eyes, his breath escapes in harsh pants, and he repeats the movements. 

Still nothing.

What is wrong with him? What had his captors done to him? How is this possible?

He is free. He is free, and something is wrong, and he bites down sharply on his lip in confusion and fear, drawing blood…

The torture chamber’s walls shimmer and appear around him, and Iruka jerks in alarm, crying out as his injuries are jarred. His wrists and ankles are chained to an uncomfortable chair, and Iruka has no idea what has happened, how he has gotten there, but the screaming agony of imprisonment and torture after his taste of escape and freedom is almost more painful than his open, burning wounds. 

Iruka breaks. His mind shatters a little each time he is trapped in what he has discovered to be some sort of illusion, as they taunt him with escape, or even home at the south pole. He does not know what sort of…of bending, of magic, this is. But he discovers a way to tell whether his seeming escapes are reality or delusion. By the fifth time they catch him in the illusion, he confirms that if he cannot bend water, what he sees is not real. By the seventh time, Iruka confirms that sharp, sudden pain can bring him back to reality. 

Time means nothing to Iruka. All he knows is that if he does not escape soon, he never will. 

When they bind his hands with rope and wire, instead of metal, when the man on duty nearly drowns him in a barrel of water and then revives him, again and again, he knows that this is the best chance he will get. Gagging, coughing up water, he jerks his bound hands up, and the water shoots up into his torturer’s face, hardening into ice to suppress any shouts that would bring the other guards running or call forth a jutsu. 

Words, he has discovered, are part of what brings forth what seems to him to be magic; hand signs are the other half. 

Before his torturer can take another step, Iruka slams a small, slender spear of ice into his throat, and watches dispassionately as he collapses in a puddle of blood. His search of the dead man for weapons is awkward with bound hands and broken fingers, but Iruka amasses a small collection of knives and what he believes are called “shuriken”. 

Iruka gathers the water in a layer around his body, and hopes that the glow of healing is not too noticeable. The burns, open wounds, and internal bleeding heal for the most part, leaving behind a network of thin white scars and extreme tenderness where the worst of the damage had been. Broken bones, on the other hand, have always troubled Iruka, and he has no time now to set them and speed up the healing process. He must escape; he is not sure how much longer he can last otherwise.

It is desperation and the advantage of surprise that allow Iruka to slit the throat of the guard outside of the chamber with no one the wiser. He limps, body aching, until he reaches the grate that leads to the sewers, leaving behind a third dead body and gaining a stab wound in the shoulder for his troubles. By the time the alarm is sounded he is beyond hearing, beyond caring about the stench of the sewers, and only sheer bullheadedness keeps him on his feet and bending the polluted liquid from his path. 

It wastes energy, perhaps, but if he does not continue bending, he cannot prove to himself that this is real and true and not delusion. 

The sewer eventually leads him to a river and, not knowing what shinobi are capable of when it comes to tracking, he remains within the river. He pushes through his exhaustion and heavy limbs, bending the current to bring him faster to the sea – because surely the river leads to the sea, to open water, and perhaps an escape.

The night is dark, the clouds hiding the moon and stars when Iruka collapses on the riverbank, passing out in exhaustion with his lower body still trapped within the current. Even the cold and pain cannot bring him to wakefulness, and when the first light of dawn stirs him, his body aches and screams in pain. He is not certain how long he has been unconscious, and does not dare linger to set his broken bones, not until he reaches the ocean. 

Iruka is lucky that an island is just barely visible in the distance, and aims for the far shore with little thought or care to what creatures might lurk in the water. Desperation and fear keep him moving; the island seems not nearly far enough from Kirigakure, and so he stows away on a boat, hardly caring where it goes so long as it is away. 

Only then, en route to Yu no Kuni, does he realize that he has, for the first time in his life killed another person. Not just one, but three; living, breathing people, his torturers and captors, and he saw only their cruelty, but that wasn’t all they were, was it? Perhaps they had families; they must have been loved? His thoughts scatter and skitter, as he sobs into his knees, because he hates them, pities them, wanted them to stop, never wanted them to die, never wanted to kill, though he wished at times they would drop dead and leave him alone. He is broken, Iruka knows it, they broke him, mind and bones, so much of his blood spilled and splattered. He bites down on his torn, dirty pants and tries to stifle the noise threatening to emerge from his throat.

He grasps for something, anything else to distract his thoughts, realizes and takes the time to mourn his lost possessions, the last material remnants of his home world. There is an emptiness in his heart as he thinks of the ivory choker his Sifu Kaito had gifted him.

The stories are all that remain. These, at least, have been burned into his memory; first as a child who loved them, then as an orphan in the streets to alleviate his desperately lonely nights, and now as a tortured prisoner who uses them to keep himself sane. 

 

Danger is not through with him in freedom, and Iruka is not so foolish as to think he is safe. He is unlucky one evening, months later, and falls prey to a group of bandits. He hesitates too long to defend himself with more than his fists and knives, and at least one of the bandits is – or was – shinobi. Iruka cannot keep up with any sort of shinobi, he knows this better now, though he does not give up. 

For his efforts he is rewarded with something like a giant shuriken slamming into his back, and the loss of what few possessions he has managed to acquire. The fuuma shuriken – he discovers the proper term later – barely misses his spine, and cracks two of his ribs, leaving him prone on the ground, groaning in agony. They leave him for dead; had the rain not been pouring in sheets throughout the night they may have been right. With every drop that lands upon his gushing wound, the skin and muscle knit ever so slightly back together. 

Iruka attempts to lift himself onto his elbows and drag himself into a better position. Instead, he nearly gags on the pain, bile rising in his throat and darkness creeping in his vision. He stops moving immediately, lets himself collapse and simply try to breathe, because if he passes out he may never wake up. He is not one who can heal in his sleep. 

Nearly a day later, when at last he can move without risking unconsciousness, he staggers slowly toward a nearby road and follows it away from the bandit camp, in search of someone he can beg for bandages, or a shirt, as the one he wears is soaked through and heavy with blood.

And then, Iruka determines, he will search out someone to teach him the limits, and the most basic skills, of a shinobi. 

It is not an easy task he has set himself. No Hidden Village will be likely to teach him, even if he dared to near one, or managed to enter without some form of identification. This seems to leave only the missing nins, the criminals and deserters, and Iruka cannot trust them as far as he can throw them, even were he to find one willing to teach him, which is far from likely. 

He does find one, eventually, older and without the madness or sadism he senses in other missing nin. The man does not give his name; he is not kind or patient, and is reluctant to impart knowledge and skill. Iruka learns a little bit about chakra, though not now he can access it, and a little of the taijutsu, though only a few katas, and a little about the countries and people of this world. He takes all he hears with a grain of salt, learning that it is best not to question the gruff older man directly, and in exchange Iruka hunts, and cooks, and takes care of the camp. 

Eventually, less than a month after meeting him, Iruka and the missing nin part ways, more or less cordially. The shinobi has been hired for some sort of job Iruka knows is highly illegal and may ruin the lives of innocents, and Iruka will not follow. 

Iruka passes through town after town, listening to the people, browsing through libraries and bookstores, and slowly increases his knowledge of this strange new world. He skims every book or scroll he can discover relating to religion and the supernatural, but there is surprisingly little to find. They are not, it seems, a very religious people, despite what the spiritual energy element of chakra may imply, never mind the familiarity with death among shinobi. The bijuu are, it seems, as close as the people come to the existence of spirits on this mortal plane, and they seem to think very little of the tailed beasts; Iruka can, to a point, understand the fear, and even hatred after reading about the madness, power, and destructive capability of the nine bijuu, although as an outsider he does not feel so keenly or personally. In any case, nothing he reads suggests that any of them would be able, much less willing, to send him home. The longer he remains within this world, the less he believes he will ever see his again. 

As time passes, Iruka focuses less on returning home, and more on making his way within the Elemental Countries. 

He is wandering a tourist town in northern Yu no Kuni when he sees the white-haired man behind the women’s bath houses. Iruka pauses, astonished by the man’s audacity, before examining him more closely. The man has a tall, powerful frame, though he is currently hunched over and giggling perversely as he peers through the slats of wood. At this angle, his face is in profile; Iruka can make out a red line running down from his eye, as well as a hitaiate in a style slightly different than any other he has seen. Two important points stick out to the waterbender: the man’s hitaiate does not have the slash denoting missing nin, and the symbol on the hitaiate is not affiliated with any village so far as he knows, and he has made it a point to be able to identify the symbols of all Hidden Villages. 

Iruka’s considers the man for another moment, his mind flicking quickly through explanations, scenarios, and plans. The corners of his mouth twitch, just a little, and it is the first time in quite a long time he feels…not quite happy, or content, but…hopeful. 

If he is lucky, he has finally found his shinobi teacher.


	3. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no real excuse for the long wait. But at least it isn’t abandoned? And this is definitely one of my longest chapters ever (I think), so some minor compensation? 
> 
> I apologize if the latter half is disjointed, too exposition-y, confusing, or what have you. I had all this information that I thought necessary to include, and not sure how best to do that. It’s what took so long to get this chapter out after starting it, like, a month ago? Sorry. I finally decided to heck with it, and just decided it was good enough and more than late enough. (I have so many big ideas, but actually writing them down is…slow. Very.)
> 
> Suiton: Mizu no Souzou is my own made up jutsu. If it does exist in Naruto, could you let me know what it’s actually called? I tried to look it up and didn’t see it.
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed this (extremely, embarrassingly late) update!

Iruka considered his options. It didn’t look like the ninja was planning to leave any time soon. He would probably have time to at least head over the pub two stores down and see if anyone knew anything about him. Surely he could couch a few questions in ways that didn’t stand out.

However, he couldn’t quite stomach walking away without doing or saying anything. While his…hobby…was relatively harmless for a shinobi, all things considered, that didn’t make it right. Or, hopefully, legal.

Iruka supposed that settled it. If he could at least get the shinobi to approach him, he might be able to get him talking, get a feel for the man. Maybe interest him, if he was lucky, at least enough for him to consider teaching him.

He wandered nearer, close enough that he didn’t quite have to shout, but not so close that he left the open space of the main street. Hopefully, a town full of witnesses would deter an attack if the other was so inclined. Or at least prevent a killing shot. Plus, he did not want to get caught up in some sort of argument, should the women in the outdoor baths misconstrue Iruka’s presence and take offence. He really couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself, much less that sort of widespread negative attention.

“Excuse me, shinobi-san?” Iruka said loudly.

He didn’t so much as twitch, still giggling under his breath.

Iruka wrinkled his nose and tried again. “Excuse me. Ah…the large man with the white hair? What are you doing with that fence?” He hoped that loud phrase would at least gain the shinobi’s attention and force him away from peeping on the women. The fear of being caught would at least get him to talk to him, right?

Unfortunately, Iruka had misjudged things. The shinobi jerked his head around to look at him in horror, but there also came an abrupt outcry from the other side of the wooden fence, shrill, murderous, and numerous. The slats splintered and almost seemed to explode outward as a stampede of nearly naked women caught and proceeded to pummel the white-haired man, throwing whatever weighty object they could get their hands on at him, and still remain more or less on the premises of the bathhouse and not too exposed to the main road.

The shinobi was gone between one blink and the next, and Iruka left quite hastily as well before the furious women could notice him standing and watching in a sort of dumbfounded shock.

So, that had been a bust, but Iruka was determined not to give up yet. The shinobi didn’t look to belong to a village and probably wasn’t on a mission if he had time to go peeping in women’s bathhouses. He flushed at the thought and forced himself to concentrate on his next step.

Therefore, he probably wasn’t in a hurry to leave and it was late enough in the afternoon that it was unlikely he planned to leave when staying the night at least guaranteed him a hot meal and a bed. There was still time to find him, so long as he was as attention-catching as his habits and appearance would suggest. Surely, he thought, someone at the pub would at least have heard of him, and where he might be found.

As it turned out, the shinobi was more well-known than Iruka had expected. Sipping on a drink and casually mentioning the strange peeping tom got him a name and his more well-known habits. He didn’t want to stand out himself, and his ignorance was an easy way to earn the wrong kind of attention, so he couldn’t inquire as deeply as he would like. For example, his title. Jiraiya of the Sannin. What three ninja, and would he have to deal with the other two as well? Approaching just one shinobi was bad enough on his nerves. He wasn’t sure how well he would handle being in the presence of more than one. Especially – assuming he was lucky and the man did agree to teach him – if he would be spending a significant amount of time with a group of ninja. Just the thought had him breaking out in a cold sweat and his chest tightening in fear, the condensation on the bottle freezing beneath his hand. He swallowed a mouthful of the cheapest beer they had on hand around a lump in his throat, and discretely took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm down.

One thing at a time. He had a plan to get the man’s attention, and from what he’d gathered from gossip and off-hand comments, at least this shinobi probably wouldn’t gut him first and ask questions never.

Iruka slipped off as soon as he was able and returned to the bathhouse, this time entering and speaking with a very irritated manager. In exchange for one hot meal, a spare blanket, a coil of good quality rope, and a small, well-used hammer, the young waterbender trudged out to the broken fence and began rebuilding the crushed fence. It had taken some persuasion, but he was honestly the cheaper and faster option. Plus, he wouldn’t be paid until the manager inspected his work to make sure it was satisfactory, which had probably helped his case. He was confident in his ability to build a solid fence; he’d had a bit of experience from travelling in his life before.

No. He couldn’t –  Don’t think about that.

Regardless, so long as the manager was honest, he would get some needed supplies and a rare meal not cooked over a fire. And in the unlikely event the manager wasn’t, at least he had this chance to get Jiraiya’s attention.

This was the only bathhouse in town. The ninja would probably return tomorrow once things had settled down and Iruka would be ready.

He collected his payment that evening, and was grateful to be allowed a quick soak after scrubbing the accumulated dirt from his skin. It was a wonderful change from freezing cold streams and chilly ponds.

Iruka debated setting up camp outside the town and returning in the morning, but… This was his one chance. The thought of being so far away, of maybe missing this ninja made him feel slightly shaky, a tremble building up beneath his skin. Iruka survived. It was something he got from his father, and he couldn’t survive in this world without ninja skills. Survive for what, he didn’t know. That would come next, he supposed.

He just…didn’t want to die.

He didn’t think he wanted to die.

Iruka wedged himself in the crook of a thick tree branch, out of sight of the road but with a view of his newly built fence. It wasn’t the first time he had slept in a tree; it tended to be the easier, safer option when traveling alone.

The young man fell asleep quickly, tired from is hours of labor. When the sun woke him he felt well-rested if a bit sore, and stretched, moving around a little before returning to his watch. He was a hunter. It had been hard-won for an energetic troublemaker, the ability to sit in absolute stillness for hours. As always, there was no guarantee. But he hoped.

Iruka’s patience paid off late in the morning, and although he didn’t move immediately, didn’t leap from the tree as was his first instinct, his heart raced. He’d obsessed over what he should say to persuade Jiraiya to teach him, had thought of a hundred different ways the conversation could go, a thousand different things he could say. The man from another world had not been able to decide, had hoped perhaps something would come to him when he saw the other man.

_Tui and La, help me_ , he prayed silently.

He hopped down from the tree and headed toward the large, white-haired ninja, doing his best to _not_ seem as if he was trying to sneak up on him. That just struck him as a dangerous proposition.

“Excuse me,” Iruka said, stopping a polite distance away and pitching his voice low enough that it couldn’t be heard on the other side of the fence. “Jiraiya-san?”

The shinobi spun around, and Iruka couldn’t help the slight crease of his brow. He couldn’t have really snuck up on him. Especially since he had made sure to make some noise as he moved.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said sourly. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of research? Research that you disrupted yesterday.”

He really shouldn’t allow himself to be distracted, but he’d always been curious. It’s what generally got him in trouble, if he was honest. “Research?” he repeated doubtfully.

Jiraiya gawped, offended. “Yes, research, for the number one series on the Elemental Nations: _Icha Icha_!”

Part of Iruka was honestly impressed at just how dramatic the older man was. That might be why the words, “never heard of it,” slipped from his mouth before he could help it, and he regretted it immediately. It was unlikely to endear him to the other as a potential student.

The white-haired shinobi spluttered in horrified outrage. Overblown horrified outrage. “Never heard of – how could you – have you been living under a rock?”

“Close enough.”

“It’s only the greatest series of romances – ”

“Okay,” Iruka interrupted. He could connect the dots easily enough, and he really didn’t want to get caught up in a discussion of porn. “I was actually hoping to talk to you about something else.”

“No,” Jiraiya said, suddenly implacable. The abrupt change in temperament was disconcerting.

“But – ”

“I know what you want and no. I have absolutely no intention of taking on any sort of apprentice.”

“That’s not what – ”

“I don’t care if it’s always been your dream, I don’t care if there’s some sort of dire need or agonizing sob story, I will not teach anyone any of my techniques,” he interrupted sharply, and spun to leave.

And no. Iruka’s heart was in his throat, watching his last chance stride away without even listening to what he wanted – and how full of himself was this unaffiliated shinobi anyway, how self-important that he thought anyone would seek him out specifically – and desperation caused him to follow through with the plan that he had conceived of the day before. A precisely thrown stone, a muffled yelp of indignation, and Jiraiya found himself strung up by his feet, just out of sight of the women on the other side of the fence.

There was a reason Iruka had rebuilt it taller than usual, a reason beyond payment he had volunteered to rebuild it at all, and a reason he had wanted such a large coil of good rope.

Jiraiya glowered at him as he swayed from side to side, long, wild hair falling about his face, but Iruka had nothing to lose. It didn’t matter if he had succeeded in his trap because he couldn’t use chakra and so the trap contained none, or if he had succeeded because the other had allowed him to. He just needed the other to pause for a moment, to listen. That was all. He couldn’t force himself on a teacher if they didn’t want him. He couldn’t actually keep a shinobi trapped for any length of time. He just wanted to catch his attention.

“I’m not asking to be your apprentice,” he said immediately. And he must not have been able to hide his doubt or incredulousness as well as he hoped, because the look on Jiraiya’s face immediately shifted to slightly surprised calculation. “I just need you to teach me the basics, the things anyone would learn in the Academy. Or, if that is too much, just how to access chakra. I’m sure I could figure things out from there.”

The larger man snorted. “Without killing yourself?”

He shrugged, keeping his expression carefully impassive and decided not to answer.

For a long moment Jiraiya just examined him, sharp eyes taking in every twitch of his expression. “So you came to me…to teach you pre-Genin skills,” he deadpanned.

“Yes,” Iruka said, confused.

There was more silence, broken only by the quiet creaking of the rope.

“You’re serious,” he said with a hint of disbelief, and the slighter man decided that didn’t need a response. “Why me?”

“You’re the first shinobi I’ve come across that isn’t affiliated with a village, and isn’t a missing-nin. Well, not obviously a missing-nin,” he amended. “I traveled with one for a while, and it wasn’t…comfortable. And he didn’t really teach me much, so…” He trailed off.

“You have no idea who I am,” Jiraiya said more than asked.

“Should I?” Iruka wondered.

“You just happened to see me yesterday, didn’t see a hitaiate for any village, slashed or not, and decided to approach me for Academy lessons.”

“Yes…” He really didn’t understand what the Sannin was having so much trouble with.

“Right.” Jiraiya flipped upright, a kunai appearing suddenly in his hand to slash the ropes binding his feet, and landed lightly on the ground. He glanced mournfully at the bathhouse, and then gestured for Iruka to follow him out of sight and earshot of the town.

And he followed, for good or ill.

He paused to collect his rope first, wishing that the other man hadn’t cut it. It was still a decent length, though, and he coiled it up as they walked away.

At last they came to a quiet clearing in the woods. Iruka didn’t know why Jiraiya chose the spot he did, and he supposed it didn’t matter. He merely settled himself down in the grass, facing his prospective teacher with an attentive expression.

“First off,” Jiraiya began abruptly, “there’s a reason ninja begin training as children. Well, there’s several, but concerning chakra, the older you become without unlocking it the less likely you are to ever be able to. And, after a certain point, while you might continue to expand your chakra reserves you’ll never have as large of a chakra pool as you could have. Your growth will have been stunted, so to speak.

“You,” he said, looking Iruka up and down, “are too old for there not to be significant risks in unlocking your chakra. The best and most likely result is that you just won’t be able to use chakra. Worse and not uncommon results are debilitating pain as you burn out your chakra paths, and death.”

Iruka swallowed, and then straightened his spine and narrowed his gaze. He kind of wished that he had been more academically inclined, so that he might better be able to theorize any relationship between chakra and chi. He barely remembered someone somewhere – perhaps one of his teachers – saying something about chakras, except he thought they were more like energy gates lining up the center of the body. But maybe being a bender meant that he would be able to unlock and use his chakra even this late in life.

Or maybe there was no relationship at all. It hardly mattered. So many things hardly mattered anymore. He just needed to survive.

He hoped he would find reasons someday.

“That’s fine,” Iruka said with quiet certainty. “Do it.”

The Toad Sage sighed as he ran a hand down his face, thwarted and exasperated. “Kid, what is this about? Power? Revenge?” His gaze lingered on the scar that bridged Iruka’s nose before meeting his dark eyes. Distrustful. Disapproving. Obviously he thought he had figured out his motivations, and it made Iruka angry.

“I don’t want to be powerful,” he said tightly, desperately trying not to lose his temper. “Being powerful just invites trouble. The more powerful you are, the more attention you draw, the more people come after you when you just want to be left alone. And revenge? What good does that ever do?” He’d never really had the energy for revenge, in his world or this one. Too busy trying to stay alive in the immediate aftermath, and then other things had come up. It didn’t change his anger or even his hatred, but he hadn’t searched for true vengeance. Petty revenge against bullies with his pranks was about as far as it went.

“I want to survive. That’s what I want.” He looked away and couldn’t quite help the words that escaped him.

“Maybe living will follow.”

When he turned back, the large ninja was examining him with an unreadable expression. Iruka thrust out his chin and met his eyes.

“Have it your way, you stubborn brat,” Jiraiya sighed. “Take off your shirt.”

Iruka squawked and reared back in alarm. “What?!”

Jiraiya snorted. “Your virtue’s safe with me, kid. You’re a little too young and a little too flat for me. But I’m doing this the fast, efficient way since it’s unlikely anything will happen, which means seals on your skin. Specifically, your belly and forehead. So come on. Shirt off.”

Iruka gritted his teeth and did as instructed, remaining still as the other created the seals on his stomach and head, with a calm that meant he had never seen an exploding tag in action.

Jiraiya double-checked the seals, and then stepped back as Iruka took up a meditation pose. “Fuuin!”

Iruka gasped, jerking as something within him sort of…lit up. It was…indescribable, an energy that flowed through him, and he didn’t know whether to feel uneasy because it wasn’t, shouldn’t be comfortable, he’d never felt it before, never suspected even when bending, but it was him. It was familiar and it wasn’t. And he dug his fingers into the fabric of his pants to keep from…from blocking his ears or covering his eyes, except that wouldn’t do anything. Because it wasn’t a physical sense, exactly, but it was all around him, everywhere, and that was definitely foreign, and Jiraiya was lit up like a goddamn miniature sun. It wasn’t…wasn’t wrong but Iruka hadn’t ever felt this before. Surely, this couldn’t have existed in his world. Perhaps chakra and chi really were completely different energy systems.

Except…he’d run into some sort of crazy hermit in the Foggy Swamp who had been extremely insistent that everything was connected, and if this was anything like what he’d seen…

“Shit,” Jiraiya sighed, and began studying the scroll he’d linked to Iruka’s activation seals.

Iruka jerked in alarm and his eyes flew open. He hadn’t even noticed he had closed them. “What?”

“You unlocked your chakra with no problems. Now I’m obligated to teach you.”

Iruka’s lips quirked in a genuine, almost-smile.

 

 

 

His first task was to run around a lake as fast as possible for as long as he could. Iruka was fairly sure that this was a tactic to encourage him to quit, but he could also acknowledge that it was necessary for Jiraiya to gain a measure of his stamina and physical ability. It reminded him a little of Sifu Kaito’s teaching methods, actually. So he sucked it up and ran until his legs trembled, his lungs screamed for air, and he finally stumbled to the ground and was sick.

Jiraiya crouched down beside him and pressed a canteen of water into his hand. “That was actually pretty impressive for a civilian,” and when the younger man could focus he noticed that the other did look mildly impressed. “There’s always room for improvement, of course,” he continued as he stood back up. “But it’s not quite as imperative as I thought.”

Once he had recovered enough, Jiraiya walked him through all 12 basic hand signs while he tested his general knowledge. Math and reading comprehension posed no problems, basic survival skills were fine, and everything else was… Well, the expression on the ninja’s face when Iruka couldn’t name a single daimyo was telling.

He made up for it a bit when Jiraiya walked him through an Academy kata. As Iruka had thought, he was a natural at taijutsu. Having mastered several fighting styles well enough to merge them with his foundational style and make it his own, he had experience, instincts, and an impressive grasp of body mechanics and sense of his own body. Academy basic would be simple enough to learn, and Iruka looked forward to incorporating it into his waterbending style.

Later in the afternoon, once he had proven that he knew how to fall, Jiraiya brought him before a large tree. “Alright, then. There’s a way to make your training go faster, but you’ll need larger chakra reserves before we can do that. So, using this essential ninja skill and chakra exercise, we will increase both your control and reserves. You’re going to be climbing trees.” He paused dramatically as Iruka fought down his skeptical expression. “Without hands!”

For all his drama, Jiraiya could be surprisingly responsible at times. He sat nearby to make certain that Iruka really could fall without breaking his neck, and then made him stop after over an hour of failed attempts.

“Remember how you’re feeling right now,” the larger man said seriously. “You’re on the verge of chakra exhaustion. Use much more of it and, depending on how much, you could end up unconscious or dead. Sooner or later – probably sooner – you’ll be practicing without me around to watch you all the time. Don’t train with chakra beyond this point.”

“Yes, Sifu,” Iruka panted.

“What?” Jiraiya asked, confused.

“Well,” Iruka stretched his wobbly legs, “you seemed very uncomfortable at being a sensei or being called sensei. So, I thought Sifu would be more appropriate.”

“I’ve never heard that term before.” Jiraiya watched him thoughtfully, surprised by his perceptiveness.

“It means…” He hesitated, trying to figure out how best to translate without making it seem like he was an apprentice, which wasn’t really accurate in this instance and which his temporary teacher would definitely be upset about. “It’s like…a title for someone who has mastered a particular…field. Like…a sword master would be referred to as Sifu.”

“Huh,” the other man said. And that was all that was said on the subject.

 

 

 

Chakra, Iruka pondered lying in bed that night, exhausted but unable to sleep, was…well, not a problem exactly. But it was going to take a lot of work. He was far too aware of the energy that existed literally everywhere in this world. He assumed that long before they reached his age, for a ninja, its ebb and flow would be instinctual. Possibly, by the time they actively began using it, they would have already relegated its internal flow to instinctive, rather than being distracted or calculating exactly where and how it should move. Tree walking, for instance. Different surfaces would require different chakra flow. Even the different patterns in the bark of the tree… Too detailed, too distracting. He needed to develop the sort of automatic instinct ninjas had.

At that time, he could not know that chakra sensitivity was unusual and that the sheer extent of his own natural sensitivity was nigh unheard of.

Once Iruka managed the tree-climbing exercise, he spent most of his time just running up and down various tree trunks to build both his physical stamina and chakra reserves. Once he had it mastered to Jiraiya’s satisfaction, he had him running up and down trees while sticking leaves to various parts of his body. Because apparently the older man was impatient and very willing to skip steps, incorporating them later when necessary or it suited him. Not that Iruka was complaining, since he wanted to learn as much as possible before Jiraiya grew too bored or impatient to teach him. His pity or sympathy or sense of obligation – whatever this was – wouldn’t last forever, after all.

The sage began teaching him simple E-rank jutsu when he had become competent with the hand signs. Not fast, by any means, but he no longer had to correct the placement of fingers or hands. Speed would come with practice, which Iruka would be doing on his own time. And he did have quite a bit of time on his own after the first two weeks. A sort of schedule emerged as they traveled, where Jiraiya would teach him something, and then go off and leave him on his own to get the hang of it. Either he would manage the task or exhaust his chakra, whereupon he would work on stamina or study scrolls left behind to further his general education, as Jiraiya had absolutely no interest in lecturing. Any questions could be asked when Jiraiya returned.

Iruka suspected that he wasn’t very fast at picking up the jutsu, either. It was difficult and distracting, the hyperawareness of the way his chakra moved within his body. As he performed the hand signs and called up his chakra, he couldn’t resist trying to direct it, nudge it a certain way. It was like he was forcing a gear ever so slightly out of alignment. There was a set path, but his unwitting interference skewed it. It took far too long to realize that the hand signs themselves were guiding his chakra a certain direction, and that if he relaxed and let go, stopped holding on so tightly, it would flow in the correct manner that would allow for a successful jutsu. But it seemed like just his attention interfered, and the frustration certainly didn’t help.

There were two jutsu, however, that he was absolutely determined to not just manage, but eventually to master. The two he considered most useful. Kawarimi – if he could manage it instantaneously without hand signs he would be much more confident in his survival. And Suiton: Mizu no Souzou, which wrung the existing moisture out of the air to create water in a way his waterbending couldn’t manage. So long as he always had access to water, he could always defend himself.

That his elemental affinity, when Jiraiya had gotten around to testing it, was very strongly water was not at all a surprise to Iruka. The suiton jutsu were much appreciated and not noticeably easier to successfully complete than the other common jutsu he had been taught.

Finally, about month into his training, right after mastering water-walking – which had been both thrilling and frustrating – his chakra reserves had increased enough for Jiraiya to teach him the shortcut he had been working toward.

“It’s called the Shadow Clone,” he explained. “And it’s extremely chakra intensive, because you’re making a solid clone. The benefit is that you get all of your clone’s memories when it is dispelled.”

Iruka was torn between glee and disquiet. The thought of having created a copy of yourself, much less interacting with it, was extremely unsettling. He supposed he would get used to it, and it would certainly be useful, but still.

Performing the jutsu itself was alarming the first few times. He could feel so much of his chakra being abruptly sucked away, and he very nearly panicked at finding himself unable to stop it. He could definitely see why it was dangerous and why Jiraiya had spent so much time just building up his reserves.

But now he could learn so much faster, setting the clone to study theory and more intellectual pursuits while he worked on the physical. It was still strange, and apparently his copy felt the same way – which was even stranger – because Jiraiya made fun of the freaked expression on his…their faces whenever they caught sight of each other.

“Okay, before you dispel your clone, I should probably teach you meditation. Getting hours of memories at once can be disorienting, and meditation helps prevent the loss of information in the transfer.”

“You can lose information?” the two Irukas asked in stereo, and then recoiled, shuddering at the utter weirdness of it. He supposed it was kind of like having a twin, but he’d never even had the experience of another sibling.

Jiraiya cackled at their discomfort. “Well, you get all the information. But it’s up to you to sort it and remember it. Having your clone or clones make notes, if you’re studying or something, helps a lot. Back to meditation.”

“I know meditation,” the original Iruka volunteered, his clone deciding to just remain a silent witness. Like a piece of furniture.

His sifu raised an eyebrow.

Iruka hunched his shoulders a little in embarrassment. “I was an extremely active troublemaker as a child. Forcing me to be motionless and silent was torture. Once they realized it was one of my most hated activities, it became one of my two most frequent punishments.” His tone of voice implied that he was quite often punished.

“What was the other?”

Iruka glowered and didn’t reply.

Jiraiya snorted. It was actually a little surprising that his companion would volunteer that much information about himself. “Well, good for me, then. Start your meditation and dispel your clone.”

 

 

 

Iruka was actually a little embarrassed at how long it took him to figure out what Jiraiya was actually doing in travelling around the Elemental Nations. Maybe he really was as slow as Jiraiya tended to think he was. Although in his defense, Iruka usually trained on his own while the other man did whatever he did when they visited various towns.

It wasn’t as bad as the nasty shock Iruka had received when he’d been told that Jiraiya was actually an active Konoha shinobi, though. This explained some things, actually. Like how the large man wasn’t the unaffiliated ninja he had assumed, nor the missing-nin Iruka had thought he probably should have been considering how little contact he seemed to have with his village.

Once he’d made the connection, his sifu had just shrugged and taken him into town more often, leaving him in hotel rooms as he rarely took Iruka along with him on his business. That was about the time the sage found out about his other most hated childhood punishment. The first time Iruka had watched him seal the room so that no hint of chakra would escape and give them away he had been absolutely fascinated and quizzed him on all the possible uses of fuuinjutsu.

Iruka did not, as a rule, ask for things. He asked questions regarding what he learned, asked for clarification, or what their plans were, but he did not ask for things for himself. He was always very aware that he was here on Jiraiya’s sufferance, that Jiraiya did not want a student. That his survival could depend on what he learned. So he did what he could to be helpful, and not a bother. He even edited his Sifu’s manuscripts for his badly written porn.

He couldn’t quite bring himself to trust that Jiraiya liked him, had come to like having his company.

But this one time, he asked. He wanted, badly, in a way he couldn’t even articulate to himself, to learn something as interesting and useful as fuuinjutsu.

Jiraiya eyed him thoughtfully. “It’s a pretty rare field, you know. Requires a lot of study, precision, and a certain kind of creativity. It tends not to be very flashy, either. But, yeah… I think it could suit you. I think we’ll have to dedicate your clone completely to studying sealing theory, and later experimenting if you get that far and I’m not around to supervise.”

“Fine. That’s fine,” Iruka said, attention focused on him with wide-eyed gratitude.

“Don’t get too excited.” He grinned as his student began looking wary. “We’re starting with calligraphy, and we won’t be moving on until you perfect it.”

“Actually, I’m quite good at calligraphy,” he commented.

Jiraiya couldn’t help his unflatteringly surprised expression.

“I guess there were benefits to being a hellion as a child,” Iruka said with a bit of a smirk, for a moment lost in the past. “That was my other most hated and frequent punishment. I got to be a bit of a master, with how many hours they had me doing it.” He was fairly sure Sifu Kaito had gotten the idea from Sokka’s sword master…what was his name? Iruka’s heart skipped a beat – he was forgetting, how could he forget, it was his home, the stories were all he had _left_ – before recalling…Piandao.

Spirits, he had hated the punishing hours practicing calligraphy. Worse than meditation. At least then, sometimes, he managed to nap without anyone catching on.

He thanked Sifu Kaito now. Those lessons and punishments had become invaluable now.

“Huh,” Jiraiya said. “Alright, I’ll leave some examples for you to copy tomorrow and we’ll see how you do when I get back. You’ll still be studying theory for quite a while, however good you do with the calligraphy,” he warned.

Iruka’s education ended up being quite varied and extensive. He knew children hoping to be ninja spent several years at the Academy, but he hadn’t realized just how much they learned in those years, especially if, fuuinjutsu aside, he was only getting the bare bones of the curriculum from Jiraiya. It was quite impressive.

Iruka had no idea that he was learning lessons years beyond what was taught at the Academy.

For example…

Jiraiya noticed his scars, of course. Extensive scarring that had obviously not been gained in battle. Iruka couldn’t suppress the flinch at the realization, the instinct to scramble away from a more powerful opponent. But he clenched his jaw, sucked in a breath and raised head, forcing himself not to duck away from the shinobi. Whatever Jiraiya felt about what he saw, it was hidden too well for Iruka to discern.

The next day, without any ceremony or making a production of it, he began teaching Iruka what to do during torture and options for dealing with the aftermath. As if the timing was a coincidence.

Iruka didn’t voice his gratitude. He found a food stand selling karaage and served it for dinner while finally taking the time to edit the most recent chapters of Jiraiya’s newest _Icha Icha_ manuscript. And if that wasn’t gratitude, he didn’t know what was. Deciphering the author’s handwriting gave him headaches, and the plot was hardly engaging.

Iruka also ended up receiving quite an in-depth education regarding disguises. There was the henge, of course, and he practically perfected its use in terms of details and the ability to keep it up almost unconsciously. But there was so much more than that, because a henge could so easily be detected and dispelled if a ninja was looking. There were wigs and dyes and contacts and so many types of make-up of varying degrees of quality, the better types generally activated by a small, concentrated burst of chakra – some skin dyes, he was told, only infiltration specialists could afford to use.

Sometimes, as during their trip to Kami no Kuni during the rainy season, Iruka would smooth a thin layer of specialized concealer over his distinctive scar and activate it with a small pulse of chakra, so that not only was the make-up indistinguishable from his skin, it wouldn’t smudge or run in the damp.

And then there was the way a person moved, how they spoke, their quirks, even how they stood still or didn’t. Even a professional, chakra-less disguise was useless if the person acted strangely or stood out, and not just ninja paid attention. Jiraiya had him practice in remote, civilian towns until he was deemed proficient, before ever letting him disguise himself anywhere near an area likely to have ninja. Someday, he might not even have to constantly remind himself every moment to answer to an alias, to walk in this manner, or speak this way when disguised.

However, even then word spread. They might have managed to delay it, but people eventually began to recognize that Jiraiya traveled with a companion, who could possibly be identified by the scar across his nose. That was more attention than either of them liked, and though they were reluctant, they would soon have to accept that it was time to part ways.


	4. Interlude: Jiraiya

Jiraiya hadn’t exactly meant to take the kid on. It had been a combination of interest, affront, and a well-hidden soft streak that had him giving the guy a chance. For someone who was essentially a civilian to even attempt to trap a ninja, much less one of his stature – and how the guy had never even heard of the amazing Jiraiya, Toad Sage of Mount Myoboku and famous author was mind-boggling in and of itself. Well, regardless, the kid had some seriously impressive balls. As someone who had attempted to peep on Tsunade fairly regularly even after she developed her monstrous strength, he could respect that.

Plus, the spymaster had been fairly sure that unlocking Iruka’s chakra this late in life just wouldn’t happen. As he had explained, there was a reason ninja began their training as children.

So he was stuck. Tsunade’s luck had apparently rubbed off.

He’d figured that if the physical training didn’t drive him off, he’d just give him a few tips, make sure he understood the dangers of playing around with chakra, and send him on his way. Except…

Except.

Iruka grew on him. He was generally inoffensive and friendly, even cheerful, although Jiraiya could tell that at least in the beginning that cheer was mostly faked. As they spent more time together, he noticed flashes of a mischievous nature and a quick temper, although that was almost never directed at the older man, even when he pushed. And push he did because Jiraiya wanted that temper turned on him. Wanted honest emotions, because it irritated him when his student (and after all of the pain, his vows and arguments to the contrary, how had he begun to think of yet another person as one of his students?) disagreed with a neutral expression and even tone, when he refused to ask for anything for himself with the one notable exception of wanting to learn seals, when he took care of practically all of the chores and always had without ever being asked. It had been nice in the beginning, and Jiraiya had reveled in having someone else to do things for him without complaining, but the more he came to know his companion, the more uncomfortable with it he became.

Because it meant that Iruka still didn’t trust him. That some part of him was still afraid of Jiraiya hurting him, and it galled.

And Iruka was _interesting_. Yet another reason the shinobi found he wasn’t in any hurry to get rid of him. The young man was always surprising him, whether it be with brilliance or enormous ignorance. Part of what Jiraiya perceived as brilliance, he would acknowledge wryly, was probably that he kept forgetting that ignorance wasn’t the same as stupidity.

It was hard to remember, though, when Iruka first insisted that there were four elemental natures, and then kept forgetting the fifth if he was distracted or surprised when Jiraiya quizzed him, never mind his confusion about interactions between the elements, and the blank incomprehension when first introduced to the notion of combined element kekkei genkais. Lightning as its own element seemed to puzzle him. Or when he nearly jumped out of his skin the first time the TV in one of their hotel rooms was turned on, and then spent a couple minutes studying the remote to figure out how to work it. Or when he first encountered a camera and automatically assumed it to be some sort of weapon when the photographer began aiming it at them. Or his extremely sketchy knowledge of geography, and almost complete ignorance of, well, any of the governments of the Elemental Nations.

Jiraiya actually managed to confuse himself when explaining clans to Iruka, because there was this nagging feeling that some nuance or aspect was just not connecting for the kid. Except that Iruka said and did, in fact, appear to understand his explanation of what clans were (basically an extended family unit, commonly sharing a kekkei genkai or hiden). So he let it go. The way clans were treated varied not just from country to country, but also within the country, and Iruka was unlikely to have any sort of dealings with them anyway.

Also the summons. He couldn’t forget Iruka’s reaction to witnessing his toad summons. First off, he actually seemed strangely relieved at seeing a toad about half again as tall as a grown man (because he hadn’t seen an animal larger than a cow, which was somehow concerning? Jiraiya did not understand this kid. He also thought he heard something about carnivorous cows which, just, no. Insanity was the norm among ninja, but he had no experience, and wanted nothing to do with, the delusions of almost-civilians). The talking only freaked him out a little, and then he was bowing of all things, palms pressed together before his face and speaking with extreme politeness. Turned out, the kid thought his summons was a spirit. Still thought they were spirits, the sage could tell, though Iruka outwardly acquiesced when he and his summons continued to insist that they weren’t, and pretended that disbelief and discomfort didn’t linger whenever Jiraiya performed a summons.

If that didn’t confirm his theory that Iruka was some harmless, backwater hick from nowhere – possibly somewhere similar to Yuki no Kuni from the other’s vague descriptions – then nothing would.

Actually, if he looked at summoning from Iruka’s perspective, he could understand the slowly fading discomfort. Just summoning spirits whenever he felt it necessary? Yeah. On his part, if he were to push past the initial ‘WARNING – SUICIDAL STUPIDITY’ feeling and seriously consider spirit summoning, he would sure as hell be double and triple checking that there was no other choice, that he knew every aspect of what he was doing, and then be prepared to offer his life, soul, or equivalent. You just did not summon spirits to pass along messages or to assist in peeping on women.

You summoned them to seal a bijuu about to decimate your home village.

No. Jiraiya wasn’t thinking about that.

But for some strange reason it was the element confusion that he kept coming back to. Possibly because it was the first indication of just how weird the kid’s knowledge base was. Aside from having no idea who Jiraiya was, of course. Even now, when caught off-guard by a question about elemental natures, someone exceptionally observant or who knew the young man well (Jiraiya had his suspicions that he was the only one in the latter category) could tell that the slight indrawn breath to respond was actually used as a pause to mentally remind himself of the correct answer.

Yeah. Suspicious.

But _interesting_. Iruka’s point of view, his reactions, and his honest opinions when they could be coaxed from him were so _different_. He thought differently, saw things differently. It was new. And part of the reason Jiraiya agreed to teach and nurture the kid’s interest in fuuinjutsu, because he really wanted to know what a mind like that could come up with. What sort of sealing style would develop from that way of seeing the world? (The sheer number of variations on the exploding tag he had come up with – both intentionally and accidentally – was actually somewhat frightening.)

So, where Jiraiya had originally intended advice and a quick rundown of the main things taught in the Academy, he was now well beyond any pre-genin curriculum in all aspects of ninja life he had found to be practical and useful.

He just hadn’t told his student that bit. Had forgotten, actually, their partnership having ended more abruptly than planned. Iruka probably thought he was barely genin-level. Heck, he probably thought he was behind.

Oh well. The skewed perception of ranks probably wouldn’t hurt him. Might even help, though he couldn’t really imagine how.

It was a good thing Iruka had taken an interest in fuuinjutsu, though. Jiraiya suspected that was the only reason the stubborn bastard had finally agreed to carry one of his seal arrays that would allow them to send letters between them. Kami-sama, it wasn’t even as if he would be inking it on his skin, although he was sorely tempted. Even then, he’d had to remind him that this way they would be able to continue fuuinjutsu lessons, and bounce ideas off of one another

And if he encouraged Iruka to pass on any interesting gossip he might hear in his travels, well, that was just him being nosy. There was absolutely no reason for him to look sort of like a trapped animal, and also like he’d been sucking on a lemon, or something. It wasn’t like he was asking Iruka to spy on people or anything, and he told him so, to the other’s visible relief. Iruka definitely did not have the sort of education necessary to be a spy, after all.

He had ended up breaking down the entire seal for his companion, going over it bit by bit because Iruka was absolutely not going to allow himself to be tracked in a way that wasn’t under his own control. And he wouldn’t be, unless he activated a certain section of the seal that would alert one of his messenger toads. Jiraiya hadn’t even bothered with any other tracking seals, knowing that Iruka would never agree, and was competent enough with fuuinjutsu to catch him if he tried any tricks.

Plus, it was an ingenious array for instantaneous written communication, if he did say so himself, and it was obvious that Iruka was determined to memorize it for his own future use before he left.

If he mainly just wanted a way to make sure that Iruka was alive…if in the depths of his mind he had reluctantly come to see him as his student...

He cared. That was really what it came down to.

Just look at what had happened to his students that had come before.


End file.
